Samsara
by Sotalpfs
Summary: Will the death of one destroy them all? CHAPTER 5 IS UP
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, though God only knows I wish I did.

Additional Note: Reviews (and writing advice in general) are certainly welcome, but be gentle, please! This is my first attempt at writing fiction of any sort.               

**Samsara**

**By**

**Sotalpfs**

**Chapter 1**

_God, it's beautiful._

He sighed, curling his toes in the silky white sand, while gazing into the distance as the soft light of the fading afternoon sun glinted off an emerald water's surface. Closing his eyes he leaned back, casually resting his shell against the trunk of a sparsely-leafed palm. Relishing the warm, mellow breeze that lightly played with the tails of his bandana, he let the gentle lap of water caressing the shoreline weave its spellbinding song around him. Lulled by its soothing melody, he slowly began to relax in body and mind. Stretched out on the sand, he found himself gazing once again at the glittering surf before him; cool and inviting, it beckoned to him. 

Guided by the fading light, he rose and slowly made his way toward the water's edge. A wave reached out to him, sending delicate tendrils of water to curl about his feet. Unable to resist, he stepped forward and glided smoothly into the waiting ocean. A slow smile crossed his lips as he lightly played his fingers across the glassy surface, sending tiny ripples into eternity. As if waiting for him all along, the warm water quickly enveloped him, with the soft current gently pulling him deeper into the depths. Giving in to the seduction, he turned, slowly spread his arms out, and leaned back into the water. With one long, slow exhale, he relinquished the last remnants of tension from his muscles. Seemingly in response, an overwhelming sense of peace and contentment flowed through him, calming his soul and easing his troubled mind. 

He raised is eyes to the deep blue of the cloudless sky above, mesmerized by its promise of peace and tranquility. Far off in the distance, he could faintly hear the joyful sounds of birds tittering in the trees, and the soft rustling of leaves as the warm, tropical wind flittered about the land. 

Closing his eyes, he concentrated his mind on the rhythmic ebb and flow of the current swirling beneath him. He wanted nothing more than to disappear into the watery abyss; to be absorbed into this world, never to return again. 

He knew then that he didn't ever want to leave. But deep down inside he also knew this could never be. 

The painful reality of his life awakened within him a sudden surge of hopelessness. He shut his eyes against it, hoping to keep the dark whirlwind of his thoughts at bay. But the black cloud of despair forced its way in, crashing down on him, as it always did, in full force.

Raphael blinked, his dream world suddenly gone.

He tried in vain to hold on to the last remnants of the vision. But the moment had passed, having slipped beyond his reach. Feeling angry and frustrated, Raphael begrudgingly relinquished the daydream. His eyes still firmly fixated on the page before him, he struggled to gain control over his emotions, as the familiar dull ache of misery returned once again to plague his every thought. Plunged back into the awful reality of his life, he suddenly felt so completely and inexplicably empty—so utterly alone. 

Raphael quickly blinked back the tears that threatened to fall, desperately trying to rein in his despair before it consumed him entirely. 

Self-consciously wiping at his eyes, he furtively glanced around the room. Though he had to share with Mike, he claimed the tiny bedroom as his alone, for which his younger brother had little choice but to abide by. Being somewhat removed from the rest of the lair, it afforded him the welcomed seclusion he craved, as well as the peace and quiet so difficult to come by in a family of five. Thinly veiled threats were usually all that was needed to keep his youngest brother out; most of the time, anyhow.

Raphael's gaze settled once again on the page before him. Not wanting to take his eyes off, he felt along the table, gingerly picking his way through the clutter until his hand alighted upon the scissors. Cursing the right-handers of the world, he fumbled with the awkward contraption, trying to fit the child-sized loops around his thick fingers. After several failed attempts he was met with only limited success. Muttering angrily to himself, he proceeded to carefully clip the image from the page. Once finished, he scooted the chair back and stood, gently working the tension out of his neck. He glanced at the clock sitting next to the bed.

_Shit. _

He had to hurry; the others would be returning soon. With the picture in hand, Raph quickly made his way to the bed, skillfully maneuvering around the piles of junk littered across the floor. A brief check of the door confirmed he had forgotten to lock it. He wasn't too worried, though. Mike knew better than to barge in without knocking, and Leo and Don avoided is room altogether. Still, he wasn't about to take any chances. 

Kneeling beside the bed, he lifted the worn-out mattress, revealing a tattered scrapbook hidden beneath. Gingerly picking it up, he let the mattress fall back in place. Plopping onto the bed itself, Raphael quickly flipped through the worn-out pages, finally stopping only when he'd nearly reached the end. 

He had found the thing about a year ago at the local dump while scavenging for something to eat. Water damaged and without a cover, it was of little value. He was about to toss it aside when it occurred to him that Mike could probably use it for his football-card collection. Since his brother's birthday was approaching anyway, Raph figured he could patch the thing up and give it as a gift. And seeing as how Mikey was notorious for leaving his cards all over the lair in the first place—at least this way, Raphael hoped, it would get them off the floor. Best of all, he reasoned, it would give Leo one less thing to bitch about. 

Using the flaps from a discarded cardboard box, and the last of Don's electric tape, Raph finally managed to piece together a decent cover. Wrapping the album in a worn-out paper bag, he decorated the front with the names and stats of some of Mike's favorite players. To finish it off, he took out an orange crayon and hastily scribbled:

For Mike!

R

Short and to the point. Raph would be the first to admit he wasn't one for any of that sentimental crap; not like Mike, anyhow. He_ was kind of proud of his work, though. It wasn't much, but then again, Michaelangelo gushed over anything you got him. _

But an argument he had with Mike a few days later over yet another one of his stupid pranks was all that was needed to change his mind. In retaliation, Raphael decided to keep the gift for himself. Though he couldn't think of any immediate use for the scrapbook, he sure as hell wasn't about to let his brother have it; so, he simply dumped the useless thing into a box with some of his other junk and forgot about it. 

About a month later while casing the streets, he came across a discarded stack of outdated travel magazines, loosely held together by some plastic twine. Intrigued by his initial inspection, he lugged his newfound prize home. Casual interest quickly turned into fascination, and now it was all he could do to tear himself away from the pages. He soon found himself daydreaming about what it would be like to travel the world, and to actually experience it first hand instead of just reading about it in some magazine. 

But daydreaming was all it really was. He knew a thing like that could never happen; not to him, at least. Still, the idea of traveling had always had its appeal. For all of them, really. Living their whole lives within the dark confines of the sewers had left them with countless hopes and dreams—most of which, they knew, could never be fulfilled. 

Raph felt the pull more strongly than his brothers, though, which really wasn't all that surprising considering his method of escape had always been just that—escape. The others had long since gotten used to his frequent, lengthy absences. Even Splinter was less inclined to lecture him these days. Though initially relieved to finally be let off the hook, Raphael soon began to wonder whether or not his family simply wanted to get rid of him. It was possible, especially since the reasons behind Raph's departures were usually under less than pleasant circumstances. A part of him felt hurt by the possibility, that even his own family didn't want him. But despite all that—and maybe even because of it—Raph was finally able to truly enjoy his freedom away from home, guilt free. It had even become something of a necessity—for him _and his brothers—and as the years wore on, he found himself spending more and more time above._

But now Raphael wanted more. He wasn't sure exactly when, or even how it started, but at some point he began clipping out pictures of the places that fascinated him the most. He knew his brothers would tease him to no end if they ever caught on. It was with this in mind that he discovered a new purpose for the scrapbook, to which he now added his most recent clipping:

Seychelles – Islands of Enchantment! Come Bask In the Warmth and Splendor of Some of the World's Most Beautiful and Isolated Tropical Beaches at Mahe, Praslin, La Digue! 

The pictures were absolutely breathtaking: secluded beaches, jet-black parrots (National Bird of the Seychelles!), cinnamon trees, tortoise trees (this he found amusing), and even something called a screw pine.

It was beautiful and perfect…and completely unattainable.

Dejected and feeling more miserable than ever, Raphael returned the secret treasure to its spot under the mattress. Crossing the room again, he tossed the remnants of the magazine into the closet and picked up the scissors. He'd have to sneak them back into Leo's room before his older brother caught on to the little thievery and started whining again. Leo was like that. He hated it when stuff was taken from his room without permission—especially if it was done by Raph, which was precisely why Raphael stole the scissors in the first place. 

He really couldn't understand what the big deal was, anyhow. It wasn't like he never returned the stuff, and he really only did it just to bug his brother in the first place. But Raph had a nagging suspicion that Leo simply didn't trust him. He certainly wouldn't put it past his brother. The one time he'd confronted him on it, all Raph got was a stony silence in return.

Raphael shook his head in disgust, tired of trying to figure his brother out. He was in a bad enough mood as it was, and just the thought of Leo was enough to send him over the edge. He loved his brother, but he sure as hell didn't like him. Side-stepping around the table, Raphael headed towards the door.

Something moved out of the corner of his eye.

_Mike._

Startled, he whirled around to face…his own reflection in the mirror.

Frowning, he slowly walked toward the image staring out at him. He had nailed the antique hand glass above the light switch some years ago. The metal casing had long since rusted in the damp sewer air, and the glass itself was cracked in several places, rendering the observer's reflection into that of some grotesque Picasso imitation. 

Raphael had spent some of his most miserable moments standing in front of that mirror, staring at the image before him; believing that if he remained there long enough, the secret to his existence would somehow be revealed. As the years wore on though, hope turned to sorrow. 

He understood now. There was nothing special about him. There was no divine force behind their creation; just a chemical related screw-up. And the cruel irony was that they were the ones who had to pay for the mistakes of others; forced to live underground, in fear of the very people who had made them what they were. 

As far as he was concerned, his future was already written: live in fear and isolation, and die alone and unknown. He knew it; and yet, for some reason, couldn't accept it—not like the others, anyhow. 

Splinter had once told him something about how the perceptions of others reflect the perception one has of himself, and that outward acceptance only comes with inner acceptance. Or something like that. It was all bullshit as far as Raph was concerned. No matter what kind of warm and fuzzy thoughts he had of himself, no human would be able to see past the disgusting freaks that they were. And the few who did had come to regret it—like April. Raph gritted his teeth in anger, trying to block out the painful memory the name invoked. 

Granted, some days were easier than others, but it never really went away. And sometimes it was all he could do to just get out of bed. 

He looked over at the threadbare mattress crammed into the corner of the room.

_Why do I even bother? He wondered._

Suddenly, all he wanted to do was crawl back into bed; to just hide under the covers and go to sleep and hope he'd never wake again. Instead, he slowly shuffled over to the bed and pulled out the scrapbook. He simply stood there for a moment, glaring at it as if it were the sole cause of all his troubles. In a way, he realized, it kind of was—at least in terms of the demons he'd been wrestling with lately. What, if anything, he wondered, was it but a collection of hopeless dreams—dreams that could never be fulfilled? He knew then that what he held in his hands was nothing more than a collaboration of the unattainable that was, if anything, just as pointless as his own life. 

His mind made up, Raphael reached into the adjacent nightstand, hastily rummaging through the contents in search of a lighter. He finally located one hiding behind a pair of shogei hooks. He shook the container in the hope that there was still some fluid left. It wasn't much, but doable. 

Overriding his initial hesitation, he flicked it on and held the flame to the book. It didn't light at first, but merely smoldered at the edges, as if trying to give him one last chance to reconsider. Seconds later, though, and it did finally catch. Raphael watched as the tiny flame tentatively licked at the outer edges of the cover, and then suddenly roared to life, greedily devouring the collection that he'd so laboriously worked on. 

Transfixed by the orange glow, he carefully turned the book in his hands, guiding the flame on its course of action. The heat that seared his fingers belied the coldness he felt inside. He wanted it to hurt, though, if only so that it might finally override the agony within. Hungry for more, the fire obliged, eagerly attacking his fingertips. Raphael clenched his jaw in pain, but resolutely held on. He knew how to control the physical agony; it was the turmoil that burned within that he couldn't stand. He hoped the fire would devour him whole; consume him entirely, flesh and soul. But already the blaze was beginning to burn itself out. Raph tried to coax the dwindling fire back to life—he didn't want any part of the book to remain untouched—but the weakened flame only gave a small flicker in response before dying out altogether. 

With a snort of derision, Raphael dumped the ruined mass into the trashcan beside the bed. Leaning against the edge of the nightstand, he stared vacantly at the opposite wall, absently probing the burn blisters on his hands. He realized then, with a sort of detached amusement, that he was teetering on some sort of emotional precipice. And yet, he also knew he didn't really care one way or the other. 

A thought suddenly crossed his mind. A solution.

Hurrying over to the desk, he snatched up the scissors from the table, ignoring the screams of protest radiating from his scorched hands. Separating the blades, he took the edge of one and lightly traced it across his wrist. They weren't all that sharp, he realized, but they'd get the job done. Curious, he pressed down on the tip, gazing in wonder as a tiny droplet of blood trickled down his hand. Determined now, he pressed down harder, slowly pulling the blade across his wrist. His arm flared with pain, forcing tears of agony to well-up in his eyes. The blood began to flow in a steady stream, carving a path of red down his hand before pooling onto the concrete floor.

_Jesus fucking Christ, or whoever the hell you are, let me go. I'm so fucking tired of all this shit._

Raphael began to weep. Years of self-hatred and sorrow forced itself out as wave upon wave of tears flooded down his face. A sob racked his body, driving the scissors even deeper. Raphael gasped as pain exploded up his arm. His mind reeled with shock. Warily he peered down at his mangled hand, trying to see through the thick veil of tears.

What he saw brought a cold smile to his lips.

Conjuring up his best Leo imitation, Raphael addressed the room:

"I told you bro, you'd be the death of me."

A manic giggle escaped his lips.

_Bet you weren't expecting it'd be with your freakin' scissors, though._

His body started to shake uncontrollably.

_Damn, it's cold in here._

He had to make sure he finished it, though. Just the thought of having to wake-up to the horrible realization that he was still alive was more than he could bear. And, oh, the shit Leo would give him.

Raph braced for the final cut. But his hand was shaking so badly that he could barely maintain a decent grip. Slick with blood, the scissors fell from his hand.

"Shit," Raphael groaned. Suddenly dizzy, he stumbled and fell back against the wall, a trail of blood marking his decent as he slid weakly to the floor. A wave of nausea gripped his stomach, causing him to gag as bile roared up his throat. Grimacing, he held his breath and waited for the sickening feeling to pass. Several agonizing moments lapsed before the queasiness subsided enough for him to breathe safely again. Slumped against the wall, he greedily sucked in mouthfuls of air, desperately trying to keep the room from its wild spinning. Gathering up the last of his deteriorating strength, Raphael reached out, weakly pawing at the scissors that lay just beyond his reach.

_Can't turn back now._

Raph shivered violently. He could sense a dark, formless shadow closing in on him; whether someone or some_thing, he wasn't sure. He hoped it wasn't one of his brothers, though. Mike especially. He didn't want his best friend to have to watch him die. And he sure as hell didn't want Leo's ugly mug to be the last thing he ever saw…though it would certainly be an appropriate ending to his life, he wryly observed._

Wearily he struggled to push himself up, but his strength was completely gone. With a grunt of exhaustion he collapsed onto his stomach, smacking his head on the cold concrete floor, now slick from all the blood. It didn't hurt for some reason, though. Strangely enough, none of it did…anymore.

But he _had to make sure he finished it, one way or the other. Raphael tried again to sit up, but his tired body refused to respond._

_Shit, I guess it doesn't matter now._

Giving up, he stopped struggling and allowed himself to be drawn back into the endless ocean of his dreams—filled, this time, with tears of blood.

His breathing slowed…stopped.

Raphael drifted away.

Footsteps approaching:

"Raph, what the hell did you do with my scissors, dammit? 

  Raph, I swear to…oh, God."

**_Chapter 2 coming…eventually._**


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer-- I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I don't own the TMNT, though God only knows I wish I did._

_Additional Note-- Thanks to everyone who posted a review; they are most definitely appreciated! As always, your words of encouragement are what keep me writing._

**Samsara**

**By **

**Sotalpfs**

**Chapter 2**

"Oh my God, Raph, what did you do…_what did you fucking do?!"_

Leo dropped to his knees beside his brother.

 "Don, get in here!"

He reached over, carefully lifting Raph out of the bloody mire.

_…have to stop the bleeding. _

Leo clamped down on the wound.

"Donatello!"

Craning his neck, he scanned the hallway, hoping to see Donny rounding the corner. But the corridor remained empty, mocking him with its silence. Still holding tightly onto Raph's wrist, he focused his attention outward, listening intently for any movement in the lair—but all he could hear was the thunderous roar of his own frantic heartbeat pounding away in his chest.

 "Mike, you there?" 

No answer.

_Jesus Christ, where is everyone?_

He looked down again, then quickly away, overwhelmed by the nightmarish scene before him; helpless to stop the seemingly endless flow of blood gushing between his fingers. Fighting back tears, he pressed down harder. 

"Raph, can you hear me? Everything's going to be okay, alright? Just… _fuck, Mike, Don!" _

_Shit, I can't do this alone._

He lowered his head to Raph's chest, hoping to find a pulse. Faint, but still audible, it beat ever so softly; a fading Morse code of distress. Leonardo sighed inwardly, grateful for this much. 

He turned his attention to the wound, peering between clenched fingers still wrapped around his brother's wrist. It was deep. No doubt about that. He was practically swimming in blood. But he didn't know what else to do. Desperate, Leo pressed down with all his strength. 

And still the blood surged forward unabated. Frantic now, he forced all his weight onto the wrist.

 "It's not stopping, oh _fuck, it's not stopping!"_

He felt panic edging closer—bubbling just below the surface, waiting to erupt like some manic teapot. 

Leo implored upon deaf ears: "Why Raph, _why?!" _

He knew he was starting to lose it; the cool composure he'd so carefully constructed over the years now threatened to come crashing down on him like some fragile relic before a demonic storm.

_Can't let this happen, can't let this happen… _

He had to get a hold of himself—and _now. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to slow down, shoving his fears aside, willing his frenzied mind to push beyond the tornado of emotions swirling within._

_Okay, think, what would Don do? Whatwhatwhat...__tourniquet!_

 "Leo?"

Startled, he looked up to find a worried Mike peeking around the doorway.

"What's going—

"Mike, go get Don."

"What? Why?" Mike asked, pushing the door open.

 Knowing full well how Mikey would react to the sight of Raph, Leo immediately tried to shield the body with his own. But it was too late. Mike stopped dead in his tracks, the color draining from his face.

"What happened—"

"Get Don, _now!"_

Stunned by what he was seeing, Michaelangelo hesitated, torn between staying with Raph and trying to find Donny.

"**_Now!"_****__**

Mike bolted from the room, screaming hysterically for Don.

Leo turned back to Raph_. _

_Okay, okay…need a tourniquet._

Feeling blindly along the ground for anything that might suffice, his hand brushed against something metallic. He looked down, his eyes falling on the bloody scissors. 

He froze. The world suddenly stopped. He knew. With perfect clarity, he suddenly knew _everything. _

Leonardo let out a mournful wail:

"Noooo!"

Screaming at the top of his lungs, he pounded on his brother's chest. 

 "Don't leave me. Don't you dare leave me!" he pleaded angrily. "You hear me, Raph?!" Leonardo sobbed, collapsing onto the motionless body.

Time had stopped. He was entombed within this moment, this lapsed space of eternity between weakening heartbeats. He felt helpless; a rag doll caught in a riptide of insanity. He stared unseeing through half-closed lids as a tiny dew-shaped tear shed its restraints to make a slow, unhurried descent down his cheek. It paused at the edge of his jaw, as if hesitant about making the plunge; but then, without warning, it fell, landing on Raphael's chest. Continuing with its slow trek, it traced the deep grooves of his plastron, until finally disappearing into the congealing blood that coated Raph's body.

"Damn you," Leo cried weakly. "How could you do this to us…to me?"

Fear, anger…guilt, they clawed at his soul, wrenching his heart with a steel vice. A black void suddenly opened up from deep within. Gurgling up from some dark and decayed wellspring of the soul's abyss, it offered the gift of detachment for the price of his sanity. 

_NO!_

He struggled in its grasp, desperate to break free before his own mind ripped itself apart.

"AAAHHHHH!"

Leonardo let out an animalistic growl, pulling Raphael to his chest. 

_I won't let you go…I won't let you go…_

Mike suddenly came pounding into the room: "I can't _find him!"_

Leo's heart made a sudden nose-dive for his stomach. "Where the fuck did he go?!"

"I don't know," Mike sobbed, "I don't know."

Paralyzed with fear, Leo could only sit there, gaping stupidly up at his brother.

"What do we do?" Mike whimpered, tears streaming from his eyes.

_i don't know what the fuck am i going to do i can't save him i can't fucking do anything! he's dying and i don't know what to do and Donny's not here what do i do what do i do?!_

Leonardo looked at him helplessly. "I…" 

_Come on Leo, get a grip! He sucked in a lungful of air, slowly letting it out. __Relax, calm down. He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply once more. _

It was now or never, and he knew it.

"Leo, _please…"_

He opened his eyes. "We'll just have to do it without him," Leonardo said softly, more to himself than Mike. "A tourniquet..."

He eyed the sheets lying scattered across the mattress.

"Mike, go over there and rip up the sheets, we need to stop the bleeding."

Turning back to Raph, he felt along the neck, trying once again to locate a pulse. Not hearing any movement from Mike, he looked up only to find Michaelangelo still standing in the doorway, numbed with fear; his arms wrapped tightly around his chest as if to ward off some invisible chill. Trembling slightly, he stared vacantly at the floor, hypnotized by the blood pooling around his feet.

Leo groaned inwardly:_ Please not now._

"Mike, look at me."

Still no response.

"Mike—snap out of it, dammit, I can't do this alone!"

Mike's head slowly swiveled around. His face was a mixture of uncomprehending horror and sorrow, his eyes distant and glassy. 

"Mikey I need you, okay?" Leo said steadily. "I can't do this without you."

Michaelangelo merely blinked in response. 

"Mike, _please. Raph needs you.__"_

He feared Mike was beyond his reach; drugged into uselessness by grief and misery.

But then his eyes fluttered and slowly became focused again, as if awakening from a deep trance. "Yeah, okay," Mike stuttered. With one last look behind him, he lurched over to the mattress and started pulling off the sheets. 

Leo bent down close to Raph's ear: "Just hang in there bro, okay? Everything's going to be just fine. Just—"

"Here." Mike, still looking slightly muddled, handed him several scraps of cloth.

"Okay, when I'm done tying this," Leo instructed, cinching the bandage around Raph's wrist, "I want you to keep putting pressure on it; just until I can find something strong enough to finish tying the tourniquet with."

"Um, okay…." Mike replied hesitantly, his face etched with uncertainty.

"Don't worry," Leo soothed, remembering his brother's aversion to blood. "You'll do fine. Just don't think about it." 

Getting up, he suddenly remembered what he'd been trying to do earlier. Focusing on Raph again, Leonardo lightly placed his fingers against the vein on his brother's neck, searching for a heartbeat. Nothing.

_Oh, no._

"Leo, there's so much—"

"Yeah, I know, Mike," he replied curtly.

"Wh—"

"Shhh, I'm trying to get a pulse."

Leo placed his ear against Raph's chest.

_Shit._

"Oh God, I can't get a heartbeat." 

"What?!" Mike whirled around to glare at his brother in disbelief. 

"I can't get a fucking heartbeat!" Leo shouted. "He's not breathing!"

"No." Mike stared back at him, wide-eyed in shock. He shook his head vehemently back and forth: "No, no, no, this isn't happening."

Pushing Michaelangelo out of the way, Leo straddled Raph's chest. Placing one hand on top of the other, he started pumping up and down on his brother's plastron in short, strong bursts.

_One, two, three…_

"Mike, you need to breathe for him. Do it just like Don showed us, but wait until I tell you."

Michaelangelo, looking dazed again, merely sat there, his mind lost in a reverie of shock and despair. "Leo, you can't let him die."

"Mike, do as I fucking say and he won't!"

 Mike flinched at the anger in his brother's voice. Woken from his stupor, he scurried back over to where Raphael lay, his grief momentarily forgotten in his fear of Leo.

_One, two, three…_

"Breathe, Mike."

Michaelangelo lowered his head to Raph's, pushing vital air into his brother's lungs.

_One, two, three…_

"Breathe."

_One, two, three…_

"Breathe."

Leonardo glanced down at the cloth bandages. They were soaked with blood.

Mike looked up forlornly, tears spilling from his eyes: "He's still not breathing."

"Just keep going, Mike."

"One, two, three, breathe." Leo pushed down harder, trying to ignore the ominous feeling of dread creeping over him. "One, two, three, breathe!" 

Seconds past. Then minutes.

"Onetwothreebreathe!"

"I don't think—"

"Shut-up, Mike. Keep going. ONE, TWO, THREE, BREATHE!"

"Leo..." Michaelangelo sobbed, pulling away.

"What the hell are you doing? I told you not to stop!"

Mike sat back on his knees, burying his head in his hands, crying uncontrollably. 

"He's dead, Leo! Don't you get it? Raph…is…dead!"

"No," Leo whispered, "he's _not." He crouched down next to Raph's head. "You __listen to me!" he growled. "You can't fucking do this to us!" Furious, Leonardo started pummeling Raph with his fists. "You…can't…fucking—"_

"Leo, stop it!" Mike screamed, grabbing at his hands.

Leonardo swatted him away.

"How dare you—

(SMACK!)                                                                                                                        

 you conceited

(SMACK!)

 selfish 

(SMACK!)

fuck!"

"Stop it!" Michaelangelo made a desperate lunge for his brother, but Leo saw it coming and shoved Mike backward, hard, knocking him onto his shell.

Mike twisted onto his side, rubbing his elbow. He'd never seen his brother like this. And it scared him. More than anything in the world, it scared him. "Leo," he choked hoarsely, "he's gone."

"No, he's not," Leonardo hissed, defiantly. But the fresh tears spilling down his face told a different truth. 

Michaelangelo, himself crying, came over, putting his arms around his brother. 

"Leo..."

Ignoring him, Leonardo pulled out of the embrace. Wiping absently at the blood staining his hands, he gently lifted Raph's head into his arms. Cradling the lifeless body to his chest, he slowly began to rock back and forth.

_Please don't go…please don't…please. _

"I'm so sorry for everything," Leo whispered, as the last of his brother's life slipped through his fingers. 

"Dammit, Raphael…I love you."

**Chapters 3 and 4 coming in eighty-two days, twelve hours, nine minutes, and twenty-three seconds…twenty-two…twenty-one…**


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own the TMNT.

Additional Note: My sincere thank you to everyone who sent words of encouragement. As always, I am truly appreciative of your patience and support.

**Samsara**

**By**

**Sotalpfs**

**Chapter 3**

"You're dead."

A flash of steel.

"Raph, no!"

"You're dead, Leo."

Leonardo's eyes snapped open. He bolted upright, his breath coming out in ragged gasps as his heart pounded a furious staccato against his chest. The nightmare over, it relinquished its powerful grip and quickly vanished, leaving the disoriented turtle shaken and confused. Trembling before the weight of the dream, he struggled to pull his jumbled mind back together. Awareness of his waking reality dawned on Leo by slow, incremental degrees, as he gradually became cognizant of his gloomy surroundings. Blinking rapidly, he self-consciously wiped a shaky hand across his tear-stained cheeks before leaning his head back against the cool bricks of the alley wall.

He swallowed dryly, trying to ignore the acrid smells of the narrow passageway. He looked forlornly up at the dark, threatening clouds that masked the night sky. The frigid air was heavy with moisture; the ground slick from the storm that had passed through that evening, for which tiny droplets still danced and drizzled to the electric buzzing of the streetlight out on the corner. The puddles around him reflected the garish lights of the city streets upon their oily surfaces, while the walls of the surrounding buildings conspired to collect and amplify the passing sounds of the outside world: the blaring of impatient horns, the screeching of tires, the hushed voices of humans as they hurried by; oblivious to all but what their secure little bubbles of reality allotted them. Oblivious, even, to the giant turtle that huddled only a few feet away.

But that's why he chose it.

The good little Johns and Janes of the world wouldn't dare cross the threshold that separated their world from his. These dark little passages that led nowhere _from_ nowhere spoke to the fear in the human heart. It told the innocents among them to hurry on now, you don't want to know what's hidden here. What's lurking. Waiting. And they listened, scurrying on by, puzzled by their uneasiness but compelled to pick up the pace all the same.

Though he still risked exposure being above ground, he felt safe enough within the gloomy confines of the alley, shrouded as he was in its protective darkness; a darkness as familiar to him as the dull ache that had settled upon his soul.

His thoughts turned reluctantly to the nightmare, but the particulars of the dream evaded him as surely as a dying man's final, desperate grasp at life. Not that the details mattered much. He knew what it was about: Raphael.

Shuddering, Leonardo quickly pushed the thought aside.

The rain had starting up again, its rhythmic pattern marking a tuneless song on the bundles of trash bags heaped in a haphazard pile against the opposite wall.

It was time to go.

He sighed inwardly, trying to rub the last vestiges of sleep from his tired eyes.

The exhausted turtle willed himself to stand up, but his tired limbs were slow to respond to his mental commands. The cold was making his reptilian body sluggish and unresponsive. Feeling fatigued and drained, he momentarily gave up on his half-hearted attempt and slumped back against the alley wall, his shell making a slight scraping noise against the bricks. The cold was acting upon his animal instincts, telling him to sleep; yet, he knew that to give in to such thoughts could prove fatal, given the defenseless state it would put him in.

But it was more so the thought of what--or who--would be waiting for him again behind closed eyes that finally galvanized his senses.

The wearied turtle sat up straighter, wrapping the tattered remains of his trench coat tightly around him in a futile effort to ward against the chill. The wind was picking up now, causing the rain to slant at an irritating angle, pelting him in the face. He had to get out of the rain and cold before he became completely immobile. Leo ran through a mental checklist of possible safe spots where he could hide out in relative dryness until the storm passed.

Home was not one of them, though. He could never return there.

As much as he hated the damp, unforgiving ground that had become his bed as of late, and the overpowering stench of garbage and urine that assaulted his senses with every breath, there was no going back home. Not now. Not ever.

He'd been gone for over a month now. Always on the move, never staying in the same place for more than a few hours. He had no real destination in mind. He was adrift and wandering aimlessly without a clear thought of direction. He was dimly aware his travels were slowly taking him out of the city, though it really didn't matter where he went because everywhere Leonardo went his guilt followed him. Still, he kept moving. Hiding. Hiding from the ones he loved. Hiding from himself most of all. It was a bitter truth that gnawed at him every waking moment, like some half-starved mutt worries over a scrap of gristle.

He'd made the decision to leave on the long drive back from the funeral in Casey's van. Staring listlessly out the tinted window, the half-faded yellow lines ticking off the lonely miles, it came to him then what he had to do.

What he was honor-bound to do.

He had waited until the early hours of the morning, when he knew the others would be asleep, and then slipped silently out the door. He left behind a letter for them to find, written in a hesitant hand that intimated his warring emotions. He could not be the leader they needed him to be, he wrote. They were better off without him. He was a dishonor and a disgrace to his family because he had ignored the suffering of one of their own; indeed, he had played an instrumental part in it. As such, they should not go looking for him, for this was something that must be done. In time, he hoped, they would come to understand his decision. And perhaps, in time, they could forgive him.

In the end, though, he wasn't sure if the letter had been meant to convince his brothers, or himself. But, no. He was doing the right thing. He was the cancer that must be removed, and it was necessary that he suffer the exile's fate to restore honor to his family.

Leonardo ran a callused hand down his face, trying to wipe away the painful memories of his waking nightmare.

Ever since Raphael's death, something in him had died as well. He was no longer the confident, fearless leader that he once believed himself to be. Everything he thought he knew about himself ceased to exist, as if it had been merely an illusion all along. As if _he_ were the illusion. How could he be fit to lead if he couldn't even save his own brother?

He should have been there more for Raphael, but he had been too blind to his brother's suffering. It was unforgivable. He was unforgivable.

Leonardo lowered his head into his hands, and let out a shaky breath that floated away in a cloudy billow against the frigid night air. His thoughts drifted back to that last, fateful night. He immediately tried to banish the painful memory away, while struggling against the black void of despair that threatened to consume him at any moment. But as such things have a life of their own, it refused to die and came flooding back to him in full force.

Yes, more than Raphael had died that night.

Kneeling in a pool of his brother's drying blood, Leonardo held Raph's lifeless body in his arms, searching the depths of his brother's empty eyes for the answer to the question Leo dared not utter aloud. Peering into those twin mirrors, the answer soon became clear.

Leonardo saw his own guilt reflected back at him.

_You did this_.

Lost in the darkness of his own suffering, he vaguely remembered Mike and Don orbiting around him like wayward planets, both pulled and repelled by the grisly scene before them. To Leo, though, they were only half-remembered phantoms that were all but invisible in the blinding fog of grief.

Hours turned into days, and still he kept a quiet vigil over his brother. He refused to let anyone go near the body, leveling a threatening stare to any who dared approach. Silent and unmoving, he refused food and drink, and rarely left is brother's side for more than a moment.

Time passed, he knew not how long. Such things were irrelevant now. Finally, with the looming reality of what must be done still ahead, Leonardo set about preparing the body; first carefully washing it, and then wrapping it in a linen cloth. Plans had already been made with Casey to drive them out to the farmhouse as soon as Leo gave the assent.

April, however, had refused to come. Ever since they'd gotten the phone call, Casey said, a shadow passing over his eyes, she'd locked herself in her room. Lost in her own private grief, she spoke to no one, only stared unseeing out the window.

With Casey at the wheel, they drove out in the dead of night. And there, a short distance from the farmhouse, and far from the prying eyes of the world that would seek to destroy them, they set about the grim task of burning the body, for even in death their existence could never be known. And in that, Raphael had been right all along, Leo solemnly mused as he stood in silence apart from the others: they were destined to die as they had been born--alone and unknown. Nothing would ever change. The stars would come out that night, just as they did every night, and the world would keep on turning, intent on its lonely course. In that moment, Leonardo fully sympathized with the anger Raphael had always felt about their existence. The despair Leonardo had always been so successful at holding off through careful discipline and control, the despair which Raph had fully embraced, now landed on Leonardo with a dull, visceral thud. The gulf that had always separated the two, and which had always kept them at arm's length, was now bridged by death. The veil was lifted from his eyes, and what Leo saw was both terrifying and undeniable: The time would inevitably come when they would each slip into nothingness, as if they had never existed at all. A legacy left to no one, they would simply fade away.

The events of that night at the farm were like a slow moving dream: Casey murmuring a broken eulogy as he struggled with his own emotions; Mike collapsing in tears; Don and Casey taking turns adding wood to the pyre. And through it all Leo looked on, dull, empty, as if he were a detached outsider peering in. He felt separated from his own body; indeed, a coldness had wrapped around his heart, and he welcomed its numbing relief.

"Shock," he heard Donnie whisper to Casey. Leo didn't care to argue.

He had been the one to light the fire. He had insisted on it with a firm finality that the others dared not counter. He was on autopilot as he lit the first match, looking down on the shrouded form of his brother. As the flames roared to life, he remain rooted to the spot, wanting the fire to consume him as well, and it would have if Casey and Don hadn't reached out and pulled him back, gently steering him away.

The next clear memory he had was of the four of them lifting the remaining ashes to the wind. They each took turns, but when it was his turn the direction of the wind suddenly shifted against his outstretched hand, and the ashes were carried back on a breeze, hitting him in the face, as if to further elucidate his guilt. He stood there, unflinching, letting it rain down upon him. He breathed it into his lungs, as he felt the fine particles settle upon his skin like an invisible weight. And there, in that liminal moment between time and breath, Leonardo fully embraced the guilt--the pain. As if merely waiting for the invitation, he felt a heaviness settle upon his shoulders. He willingly accepted it, as he knew he must.

They placed a simple wooden marker, the only testament to his brother's existence, next to Splinter's, repeating a scene they'd played out less than a year before. With Splinter, at least, they had time and were prepared. Their sensei had died of cancer, believed to be caused by their mutation. A fate, perhaps, they might all share. It was a long, painful death, in which their master slowly wasted away before their eyes. Still, when the time came, the unspoken sense of relief that it was finally over did little to stem the heartache at their beloved sensei's death. Each grieved in his own way, but life went on.

Or so he thought.

He had ignored the signs. They all had, really. But Leonardo bore the brunt of the responsibility. He should've known. Normally, Raph's sullen silences were filled with a burning rage brewing just beneath the surface; a rage which would invariably find outward expression, much to Leo's chagrin. But with the emotional release came temporary peace. After Splinter's death, though, the silence became something else. Something more. Never one to open up, Raphael retreated further into himself. But with the demons already lurking there, lying in wait, this time it had proven fatal.

_And it's my fault_.

No, he didn't put the blade to his brother's wrist, but his was the invisible hand that guided it. He had pushed too hard, he realized that now. He should've known just how devastated Raph was by Splinter's passing; how much they all were. But, instead of sharing in their grief, he had suppressed his own emotions, focusing on his duties as their leader. Within a week following Splinter's death, Leonardo had them back on the mat training. Day in and day out, he kept them on a rigorous practice schedule, pushing them harder than Splinter had ever done. Mike and Don duly followed, knowing the futility of arguing with him, but Raph refused, stomping off the mat to lock himself in his room. Furious that Raphael was defying his authority, Leonardo would lash out at him, berating his brother for being selfish and lazy.

As things progressed from bad to worse, and Raph started coming home late at night, stumbling and reeking of alcohol, Leo would lecture him for hours on end about his duties to the family, and the dangers he was subjecting himself and the others to by being so careless.

Yet, Raphael remained unusually subdued through it all, and would only stare dully over Leo's shoulder at some invisible spot on the wall, as if he were completely bereft of his former argumentative self; any pretense of fight having drained right out of him.

He should've known then that something was terribly wrong; that such uncharacteristic behavior was indicative of something far more serious than simple defiance. But he didn't.

He never thought something like this could ever happen, though--not to one of their own. All the long hours spent in training and meditation, all the careful discipline he exerted over himself, none of it mattered or could ever prepare him for what had happened.

His mind lost his thought, Leonardo rubbed absently at his wrist where it had once been broken in some half-remembered battle, and was now once again making its presence known in the cold night air.

Had he known then that they would fall apart as a family? He tried to be the strength they needed after Splinter's death; a leader they could depend on, as he had been trained to do. He had tried, but it was not good enough, and he lost a brother for his failures.

With Raph's death, the illusions Leonardo had of himself fell away, like so many dead leaves on a cold autumn day. He had been stripped bare, and the truth revealed for all to see. He had failed them. Failed them all. But most of all, he had failed Raphael.

_For this I will suffer. _

And suffer he will.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the TMNT.

**Additional Note:** I know it's taken me a long time just to get this far in the story. Many a sleepless night will go by as I furiously scribble out the words that come to me in those late hours. But then, for one reason or another, I put it all aside, letting matters of life take over. Before I know it, weeks become months, then years. But I never forget. Knowing how far I still have to go though (at least 10 more chapters, ugh), I admit that all too often I become overwhelmed and let the self-doubting perfectionist in me hold sway, the result of which kills the creative endeavor in a heartbeat. Even so, not a day goes by that I don't think about the story. For that reason alone, I know I will finish it. So with that having been said, while I've learned not to set official post dates—promises that I can't keep—I do have a pretty solid draft of the next two chapters in the works, and I won't let another year go by without putting something up.

**Samsara**

**By**

**Sotalpfs**

**Chapter 4**

Drenched in a world of wet shadows, the city draped its damp coat around the shivering turtle who huddled in its murky depths, the rain pelting him with its soft, melancholy rhythm of past memories.

He sat in unmoving silence, with thoughts turned inward. The growing urgency of his predicament weighed heavily upon him. He couldn't hide out on the streets forever. All too aware of the ever present danger that followed him like some unwanted shadow, he knew he had to find a more secure form of shelter, and soon. But where could he go? The farm, maybe, or the woods beyond it. It was a start at least. He could camp out there until spring, knowing that with winter on the horizon it would soon be too cold for his brothers to venture so far beyond the confines of the city.

No doubt they were still searching for him too, and would continue to do so, risking their lives to find him.

But he didn't want to be found.

The approaching sound of footsteps instantly snapped him out of his reverie, pulling him back from the inevitable precipice of his dark musings. Instinctively, Leonardo shrunk back against the shadows afforded by the piles of torn trash bags and empty cardboard boxes that encircled him. He watched with hooded eyes as a lone wino shambled into the alleyway, clutching a half-empty tequila bottle in one hand, and grasping at the brick wall with the other for support. The man paused, teetered precariously on wobbly legs, looking for all the world as though he might pitch forward in a drunken faint, then slumped down heavily against the building's side. From where he sat against the opposite wall, Leo could smell the repugnant stench of cheap booze and unwashed human flesh.

Curled in on himself against the cold, the man's blood-shot eyes were barely discernable amongst the tangle of clothes and hair. Muttering empty words to himself, he nursed his disease, oblivious to the humanoid turtle hiding but a few feet from him.

Resigned to waiting him out, Leonardo quietly settled himself between the detritus that surrounded him, and waited with strained patience for the man's tenuous thread of consciousness to finally dissolve, thereby affording him the opportunity to slip away unnoticed.

Minutes passed in watchful silence, during which Leo's thoughts resumed their inexorable course of descent. As before, they circled around its source, like a vulture to prey.

Raphael.

Leo sucked in a sharp breath, the name having conjured up a visceral pain that pierced him like a blade, impaling him with his own guilt.

And then there was Splinter.

What would sensei think of him now? If his beloved teacher were to stand before him, would he turn away in disappointment? Had Splinter not died, would Raph still be with them today? Sensei had always meant for Leonardo to replace him when he was gone. He knew it, his brothers knew it. Raph knew it too, though he never failed to bitch about the injustice of it all when the opportunity presented itself.

But now look at the fine mess The Great Successor had created.

The world's first mutant failure in Leadership 101.

With all the pain and destruction that he had allowed to fall upon his family, what would father say to him now?

"You want some?"

Startled, Leo looked up at the man still sitting across from him.

"Wh—?"

"You deaf or something? I said, do…you…want…some?" the man enunciated in a mocking tone, shaking the bottle of tequila for emphasis, which sent the golden amber of the liquid sloshing up the sides in angry protest.

"Uh, no…um, thanks," Leo muttered by way of reply. He self-consciously wound his threadbare coat tighter around him, more to provide protection from the man's suspicious eyes than any possible warmth that might be had. That he had been sighted despite his concealment unnerved him. He berated himself for not being more careful, and foolishly taking for granted the man's alcohol-induced impairment. To allow for such carelessness was to invite death.

"Aw, whatsamatter?" the man slurred, noticing Leo's uneasiness. "Did mommy tell you not to take booze from strangers?" he chuckled.

Leo fixed him with a dark, withering stare.

"Hey now," the man said, raising his hands in feigned defense. "Just trying to make light conversation with my roommate, is all."

Leo felt a familiar tightening in his chest, as he struggled to quell the rising tide of anger and frustration at the man's irritating taunts.

"Good little mama's boy," the wino continued to needle, his grin revealing a row of blackened, broken teeth.

A minute passed in a strained hush, as each regarded the other from across the alleyway.

Smacking his lips loudly, the man helped himself again to another drink. "The poor man's ambrosia," he said at last, wiping his mouth with a shredded sleeve. He raised his bottle as if to toast an invisible audience. "It used to be more popular than water, ya know, back when it couldn't be trusted."

Leonardo remained steadfastly silent, hoping the stranger would take the hint and leave him alone.

Instead, the man laboriously pulled himself up with a grunt and hobbled over to where Leo sat, the disengaged soles of his worn-out sneakers making slurping sounds against the wet pavement.

_Crap_, Leo thought. He drew as far back into the shadows as he could, jamming his hat further down on his head. Keeping his head low, he stuffed one hand in his pocket, the other loose at his side, hidden in darkness, just in case the man proved to be a problem.

But the stranger seemed cheerily oblivious, and Leo couldn't help but look on in wary puzzlement as the man thumped aside some of the empty cardboard boxes and produced a wrinkled stack of old, yellowed newspapers seemingly out of nowhere. Carefully placing them down in a neat square, he made an almost comical effort to align the corners. This done, and apparently satisfied, the man plunked down, stiffly crossing his legs.

"Yeah," he exhaled, leaning in close, which caused Leo to pull back—more from the man's fetid breath than out of fear of exposure.

"Way back in the colonial days, the water," he waved his hand in a see-saw motion, "it was a touch and go kinda thing; never knew what was in it, cholera n' stuff."

The man paused in thought. "Hell, we still don't," he snickered.

"So what's a guy supposed to do? Can't trust the water; least the booze's distilled." He shrugged as if it were all a forgone conclusion.

Leonardo eyed the stranger curiously from beneath the rim of his fedora. He looked to be in his late 40s, though it was hard to tell; age is irrelevant on the streets—everyone bears the burden upon their flesh. And so it was with this man. His face was weather-worn and had a sun-baked leathery quality to it. His dark, greasy hair, hung in a limp mass around his shoulders, and one watery eye drooped slightly lower than the other. His mouth pulled down at the corners as if frozen in a perpetual grimace.

The man noticed Leo staring at him. "What the hell you looking at?" he challenged.

"Nothing." Leo looked away, feeling vaguely guilty.

"I ain't no fag."

"Uh, no…I didn't mean to—" he stammered.

"Just so you know," the man curled his grimy fingers into a weak fist, "'cause I don't play that way."

The speechless turtle could only sit there, dumbfounded.

Humans and their prejudices. It was something he and his brothers had experienced firsthand, forever chaining them to an underground existence, and dooming them to a life of shadows. Yet, it never ceased to baffle him how humans could harbor such hatred and disdain for members of their own kind. The darkness in the human heart was truly a horror to behold.

An uneasy silence hung over them, wherein Leo debated making an early retreat despite the certainty of exposure. With an inward sigh, he started to get up.

"Name's Beeker," the man suddenly piped up, tipping an imaginary hat, the outburst apparently forgotten.

The turtle paused and, reluctantly, looked back. "Leonardo."

Beeker grunted. "That's a mouthful."

Leo gave him a small ghost of a smile.

"Well, then, cap'n," Beeker scratched his chin, flashing Leo another ghastly smile of his own. "Seeing as how we're not strangers anymore, mayhap your mamma won't mind if you joined me in a totty now, eh?" By way of demonstration he took a hearty swig, his pinky held high in the air like some aristocratic hobo.

Leo cast a beleaguered glance at the sky above, as if the answer to this particular form of punishment was etched in the black clouds that circled overhead.

Against his better judgment, he found himself sitting back down. He looked at the proffered drink, but shook his head.

"Suit yourself," Beeker snorted. He tilted the bottle to his lips. "You know," he said with the next breath, his eyes momentarily flashing on the hilts of the twin swords peeking above the turtle's coat, "I'd offer to be your sounding post n' all, but you don't wanna talk, and I sure as hell don't wanna listen, so there you have it."

He gave a small, watery cough and cleared his throat. "'Sides, that's not the way it works out here."

Leo bowed his head in silent acknowledgement, grateful he wouldn't have to answer any prying questions.

Beeker took another swallow, then lifted his chin, eyeing the moon that was just beginning to show itself from behind the rain-soaked clouds. He nodded toward the pale orb. "My faithful companion."

Leo's gaze followed him upward, remembering the times as a kid when he and Raph would sit under the storm drain at night to watch the moon make its ascent. They talked about everything back then, from the latest disaster Mike had cooked up in his early days as the family chef, to the mysteries of that strange and fascinating world above which was forever out of their reach. Those were the days when they shared friendship as well as brotherhood. Their talk was easy and unselfconscious, before all the one-sided conversations and stony silences that would follow a few years later. Sometimes they didn't talk at all; they'd just sit there, comfortable in each other's presence, each lost in his own thoughts.

Leo's attention was pulled to the street, where a patrol car was slowly cruising by.

He quickly ducked down, not wanting to draw any undue attention.

Beeker glanced over. "Ah, in trouble with the law I see," he grinned.

"Something like that," Leo said simply.

"Our city's finest," Beeker grumbled. "It's gotten so a man can't get a decent night's sleep anymore without getting booted outta bed every five minutes."

Leonardo was debating how to reply to that one when something else caught his attention. He pricked his ears in concentration. It was faint at first, barely discernable above the endless cacophony of the city. It struggled to be heard; yet, slowly and steadily it grew in strength.

It was music.

Not the raucous kind that blared from speakers, making every window within a five-mile radius vibrate to a beat, but soft, sensuous, symphonic notes. They floated ever so delicately in the air, like the gossamer tendrils of a broken web. As if afraid to be heard, but gaining in confidence, the music grew louder and more commanding. It seemed so oddly out of place in these dark ruins of mankind's creation.

Beeker smiled at him, reading his thoughts. "It's coming from up there," he said, pointing to a dimly lit window above their heads. "Some chick who lives in the apartments upstairs, plays it every night."

Leonardo listened in awed silence as the notes wafted through the air, seeming to float around him in indefinite suspension. Against the backdrop of the piano, the violin and cello first chimed in separately with rich sonorous tones, before joining together in a final breathtaking crescendo of sound and splendor, the likes of which he'd never heard before.

Leo closed his eyes, giving himself over to the music as it washed over him. He succumbed to its healing balm, sending up his pain and guilt to be taken away, transformed into those very notes that drifted through the dark alleyway.

As it began, so it ended.

Leonardo blinked, feeling as if he'd just awakened from a deep sleep. Donatello, he mused, a faint smile crossing his lips, would no doubt have touted the mathematics of it all. But hearing this, Leo couldn't see how something so beautiful could be divided into soulless numbers.

What was it Wordsworth said?

_We murder to dissect_.

"Eh?"

Leo looked over, embarrassed he'd spoken allowed. "Oh, uh, Wordsworth. A poet."

Beeker nodded knowingly. "Personally, I always liked Byron myself."

He laughed at Leo's expression. "What, you think I can't read?"

"No, it's just—"

"I know," he smirked. "Kinda thought the same thing 'bout a turtle talking."

Leo tensed.

Beeker waved a dismissive hand. "Ah, don't worry 'bout it," he chuckled.

"How…?"

Beeker gave a snort. "Aside from the obvious? When you live on the streets for as long as I have, you get to know the heart of the city. Listen carefully, my friend, and she'll tell you things."

Leonardo smiled uncertainly, his nerves still on edge.

"Here," Beeker said, pulling from the seemingly endless depths of his clothes a tattered relic of a book. He flipped through the earmarked pages before settling on one small passage. "This one's my favorite," he said. "Go on," he pointed, noticing the turtle's hesitation. "It ain't gonna bite ya for Christ's sake."

Realizing his cover was blown anyway, Leo reached for the book, letting the sleeves of the trench coat fall to reveal the deep green of skin beneath. He snapped a quick look at Beeker, but the man's face remained an expressionless mask. Reluctantly, Leo turned his attention to the passage.

_And if I laugh at any mortal thing,_

'_Tis that I may not weep; and if I weep,_

'_Tis that our nature cannot always bring _

_Itself to apathy, for we must steep_

_Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring,_

_Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep_

"The poet of the soul," Beeker sighed wistfully.

Leonardo nodded reflectively. Much as the music had, the words on the page spoke to him; as if, by some strange design, they were _meant_ for him to read. His eyes retraced the passage, forever burning the words into his memory.

Just then his attention was drawn back to the street, as the same police car that passed earlier came into view once more. Only this time it had slowed down markedly as it made its approach.

Leo's heart skipped a beat, his muscles tensing in anxious anticipation.

Suddenly, the searchlight came on, sweeping the alley in bright, blinding arcs.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath. He hunkered down even lower.

Too late.

"Hold it!" bellowed the speakers. The searchlight had them pinned in its baleful eye.

Leo jumped to his feet.

"Well, cap'n, I guess that's your cue, eh?" Beeker gave a conspiratory wink at the turtle while raising his hand in a cheerful wave to the cop.

"Gentlemen, get down on your knees with your hands above your head."

Beeker blithely held up his middle finger.

"Go on, get outta here," he growled over his shoulder, "I'll take care of this."

"Don't _move_, or I'll have to—dammit!"

Leo was already halfway down the back of the alley, sprinting for all his worth.

There was a brief whine as the talking head disengaged the speaker, and then a squeal of tires as the car was slammed into drive and took off down the alley. The wail of the siren pierced the night air with its banshee scream.

Leo didn't dare look over his shoulder. He vaulted over a fallen stack of wooden crates, whipped around a dented garbage can, and nearly slipped on the wet pavement before finding his balance.

This was one race the turtle was not about to lose.

He was dimly aware of Beeker's angry yelp as the man dove behind the stack of garbage bags to avoid being run over in the narrow alley. The car rushed on, quickly gaining on the turtle. Biting at his heels with every step, the powerful engine roared in triumphant hunger as the flashing lights illuminated the gloomy alley in a comic parody of Christmas cheer. The headlights of the mechanical beast tracked his every move.

There was nowhere to hide!

The car spewed sparks of fire where the side mirrors grazed the wall as it squeezed its way through the alley, heedlessly barreling through its obstacles.

Leo's breath came out in ragged gasps. He had to find a way out of the alley!

He scanned the skyline, looking for a fire-escape ladder—anything he could grab onto. Just ahead, the car's lights illuminated something else: a chain-link fence.

Safety.

If he could just make it to that. Leo put on an extra burst of energy. He hit the fence at full force. He pulled himself up and was nearly over the top when the cruiser barreled into the fence.

It was the last thing he remembered before the car slammed into him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Samsara**

**By**

**Sotalpfs**

**Chapter 5**

Caleb snarled. "What the fuck kind of driving was that?"

"What?" came the petulant reply.

Caleb gave his partner a sidelong scowl. Unclenching his throbbing hand from the death grip he had on the door handle, he reached over and turned off the siren, silencing the piercing scream that was sure to result in yet another rash of citizen complaints.

"This ain't fucking NASCAR, Reg. And that sure as hell wasn't following procedure."

"At least I st—"

Just then a flash of movement caught their attention. They both looked up in time to see their cloaked suspect launch up and over what remained of the metal fence, then vanish into the depths of darkness.

"Shit," officer Reginald Collins gave a toneless growl.

"Hold for back up," Caleb cautioned, anticipating his partner's next move.

Reggie gave him a cursory grunt before shouldering open the driver's side door. Launching out, he did a quick sideways dash through the tight space between the car and alley wall, then clambered toward the front of the cruiser, stumbling gracelessly over the broken fence.

Caleb watched his partner disappear down the back of the alley, his voice trailing behind him as he barked orders into the walkie at the poor soul unlucky enough to be manning dispatch that night.

The veteran officer heaved a weary sigh, before squeezing his own bulky frame (more to love, he joked with his wife) through the painfully few inches allotted to him on his side. After several uncertain moments, he managed to wedge his way toward the still ticking grille.

He surveyed the damage: the hood had suffered a series of rather impressive dents and scrapes, but nothing he'd have to hand in his badge for. The fence, however, was a total loss. It now lay crumpled and defeated against the undercarriage.

Caleb let out a low whistle._ How could somebody get up from that kind of hurt_?

His expert eyes scanned the rest of the alleyway. It seemed their second man had elected not to stick around for introductions, either.

Resigned to waiting his partner out, Caleb rested his mass against the side of the cruiser. He fished out a rumpled pack of cigarettes. Finding a likely candidate, he lit the end with a practiced hand and sucked deeply. Reggie, he figured, would likely be a while.

Strange, his partner's behavior tonight.

_Something's up his ass,_ Caleb thought. Reggie's pinched expression and bloodshot eyes as of late hinted at long nights, and the gray in his hair could now claim triumph over what had once been a deep ebony not too long ago.

His partner of nearly two years had morphed into a total stranger.

Caleb pulled thoughtfully on his cigarette. Reggie's growing volatility was troubling, not to mention problematic for a department already beleaguered with lawsuits and a bad reputation among the locals.

Maybe it would run its course. And if it didn't? Should he say something?

Caleb wasn't one for playing psychotherapist, nor was he known for taking the touchy-feely, NVC-approach to the listening side of things, a fact Marlene (and the department's shrink) would certainly attest to. His partner was clearly upset about something, though, and he'd be remiss—liable even—for not reporting his suspicions if something happened.

The cigarette continued to make a slow and philosophical journey from one side of his mouth to the other.

Maybe there was something wrong on the home-front. Or maybe it had something to do with work itself. Hell, in that case Reggie's anger was pretty fucking justifiable, given the crap that'd been handed down to them as of late. The whole force was in a veritable crucible, thanks to the talking heads on high who dined on the city's diminishing budget while demanding more work with fewer resources from the peon subordinates. Faithful servants to the system were seeing their pensions cut and their paychecks dwindle to a mere trickle. Just last week a hiring freeze had been put in effect; worse yet, several officers had been given the pink slip.

Seniority had saved Caleb from the ax, but it was a begrudging stay of employment on the Chief's part, no doubt; after all, Cal was too old school, too untrainable, and too damn expensive to be worth the trouble.

Had Reggie been given notice? If so, why didn't he just come out and say it? Granted, it wasn't like the two had a Riggs and Murtaugh man-love thing going on. Still, he'd thought they had a close enough partnership that Reg would feel comfortable confiding in him.

Caleb's head spun slightly from the pendulum thoughts and the not unwelcomed influx of nicotine, black-tar lungs be damned. He eyed the ground, his mind still lost in thought.

That's when he saw the torn fabric.

Pulling out a latex glove, he reached down and plucked the cloth from the fence's metal tines. It certainly looked like it came from the suspect's coat. He held it up to the car's headlamp. Possible blood stains, too.

_Injured. _

Caleb looked up to see Reg, sans suspect, making his way back from the alley. Reg shook his head. "Nothing," he grumbled. "Dispatch's sending someone out."

Caleb held up the scrap of cloth. "He's injured. Doubt he's gone far."

Reggie gave him a distracted nod. "Guess we could swing by the hospitals on our way out."

"Might as well." Caleb dropped the stub of his cigarette and crushed it with the heel of his shoe.

"What's that?"

Caleb followed Reggie's puzzled gaze. There, at the base of the cruiser's hood, faint but still visible, looked what appeared to be a partial, muddy footprint. Both officers hunched down for a closer look.

_The guy's barefoot!_

And it wasn't like anything he'd ever seen before. The outline indicated something that was a helluva lot larger and wider in form than anything even remotely approaching normal, and—

_Christ, that can't be right_.

It only had two toes.

"What the fuck _is_ that?" asked an incredulous Reggie, who was looking a little bit more like his old self again.

"Don't know," Caleb said in an even tone. But he did.

Reggie, who'd transferred over from the earthquake state a few years back, hadn't been at the precinct as long as Caleb. But Caleb had cut his teeth in this district.

The rumors started about four or five years ago: strange humanoid creatures that flitted around like ghosts during the night, prone to leaving gifts of criminalistic street trash, tied up all neat and pretty for the night shift to find.

At first it was chalked up to nothing more than the laughable gibberish of crazed junkies coming down from a gnarly high. But when fellow officers—veterans, mind you, who hailed from lengthy, high-security stints in Iraq and Afghanistan, and were not especially prone to falling for stupid—started talking about seeing flashes of these things for themselves…well, at some point you take notice.

Reggie turned to him, eyes like saucers. "We gotta get pictures of this."

"I got it." Caleb said, before Reg could act. "Think it's in the trunk." He began inching his way toward the back of the car.

"Maybe the dashcam caught him," Reggie called out in a reflective tone.

Opening the trunk, Caleb pulled out an evidence bag and secured his finding, then placed it back in his jacket pocket. He rooted around, finding the digital camera stuffed under a small clutch of toys reserved for the young unfortunates they inevitably encountered in the line of work.

Camera in hand, he paused, reconsidered, then opened the latch and pocketed the batteries. Later, reflecting back on that incident, he couldn't say why he'd been compelled to do that. Despite his recent behavioral issues, Reggie had always been a trusted partner. Caleb never had reason to question his loyalty, and yet…

"Camera's dead," he called back.

"Hold on, think I can get one with my cell."

_Shit —_

There was a sudden commotion behind him; a shifting and clattering of aluminum cans.

Caleb instantly spun around. He studied the alleyway with a renewed focus.

The trash bags were moving.

Hand resting on his holster, Caleb crouched against the alley wall, upsetting a family of rats nesting in the remains of a litter of wilted cardboard. Reggie slipped up behind to join him, gun drawn. They moved cautiously toward the pile of trash bags tumbling apart on the opposite side.

"Looks like our guy stuck around after all," Caleb murmured. "Sir, come out with your hands where I can see them!"

A slight moan greeted them in response.

"Sir, come ou—"

"I got him," Reg pushed past Caleb.

"Reggie!" Caleb hissed.

Ignoring him, Reggie proceeded to haul their second suspect up by the scruff. "You better have a damn good explanation..."

The man winced in pain, leaning heavily against the cop. "Think I hit my head." It came out an almost incomprehensible croak.

Reggie sniffed. "That or the bottle."

"Lay off," Caleb snapped from behind. "Let me handle this. Pretty sure I know him."

Reggie's nostrils flared, a renewed flash of anger spilling from his eyes.

Caleb was unmoved. "Think I hear back-up coming. Deal with that and I'll take care of him."

Reggie's mouth curved upward at the corners in a dry-lipped and decidedly unconvincing smile. Without another word, he brushed off the still tottering Beeker and marched toward the entranceway.

"Beeker, isn't it?"

Beeker slouched against the wall, gently probing the tender spot on the back of his head. "What's up with that asshole?"

Calib's eye momentarily flicked toward his partner who was angrily flagging down the approaching cruiser.

"Been wondering the same thing myself," he sighed. "You okay? Need me to call medical?"

"Nah, I'm good. Could use of those," he said, tilting his chin at the Marlboros poking out of Caleb's uniform pocket like a red tongue.

Caleb handed him the pack. "Keep it."

Beeker beemed. With palsied hands, he pulled out a smoke, then leaned toward the proffered light.

Almost immediately he started hacking and sputtering. Undeterred, he sucked greedily on the cigarette. Inhale, cough, spit, inhale.

Caleb waited him out.

"Mind telling me who that was you were talking to back there?" he finally asked.

"Don't know," Beeker rasped. "Never seen 'im before."

"Mmm." Caleb studied the man's hardened face. Beeker, he knew, was not the kind who readily talked. Too loyal to the street.

"What you want 'im for anyway?"

The tactic was not lost on Caleb. "We've had a string of assaults in the area. Your friend fit the description: male, kinda on the short side, trench coat, large hat.

Didja notice any…uh, unusual characteristics? Scars, tattoos?" _Or two-toed footprints_, he thought.

"Can't say that I did. It was dark, you know."

"Uh-huh, and I'm sure _you_ know I can take you in for that stunt you pulled when officer –"

"Asshole."

"Officer _Collins_ gave you orders to get down on the ground." Caleb ran a hand through his thinning hair. "But, lucky for you, I got enough paperwork as it is."

He pulled out his wallet, a gift Marlene had given him some years before. It was holding together by a mere thread, the deep brown now a corpse gray. It should've been tossed, along with everything else, but Caleb just didn't have the heart.

"Here." He handed Beeker his card. "You hear anything, call the number."

Beeker took the business card. He gave Caleb a gap-toothed grin. "Ayuh, will do, osifer."

Caleb smiled in spite of himself.

"Sure you don't want a ride somewhere? Looks like it's starting to rain again."

"Eh, I'm good. Thanks for the smokes, though."

Caleb watched Beeker disappear around the corner at the mouth of the alley, whistling some half-formed tune. It sounded vaguely familiar, like something Marlene listened to during Classical Hour on the radio; the one where that snobbish announcer would spout little anecdotes—"Facts and Fancies," the dumbass called it—about the powdered-headed composers between endless hours of tinkling harpsichords. Caleb despised the deep, sonorous voice of that pretentious little prick; always pictured him in tweed, smoking a pipe, probably rubbing one off between sets of Bach and Beethoven.

Marlene loved it, though; tuned in religiously while she knitted. Said it relaxed her.

Caleb winced at the thought. Marlene, his beloved wife, was dead and buried in Riverview Cemetery some three years now. Seemed like only yesterday, though, when he held her hand for the last time as the cancer devoured the final moments of her life, the terrified look in her eyes silently pleading with him to save her.

Caleb abruptly pushed the thought away and cleared his throat.

He returned to where Reg stood, hands on hips, overseeing the reinforcements as they swarmed around the scene like overzealous bees. Reg turned to face him, his mouth set downward. "You just gonna let him off like that?"

Caleb kept his voice low. "Wanna explain to the review board why you were trying to run over our suspect?"

Reg, looking momentarily humbled for once, had no response.


End file.
